Unformatted Attachment Preview
Descriptive Narrative
Student Example
The Substitute Teacher
“Did you know Dist. 87 is closing?” my mom asked me.
“No!” I replied, “really!”
My mom said, I remember Mrs. Wulf was your favorite teacher. Was she your teacher
through third or fourth grade?”
Trying to recall I answered, “I’m not sure.”
“Oh! Remember that one substitute you had while Mrs. Wulf was sick?” she asked, not
waiting for my response she continued, “What was her name anyway, do you remember?”
Thinking to myself, yah, I remember her, but what was her name? Thinking out loud in
answer to my mom’s question I said, “I think it was something like Krumbly, or Kerber, or
Kimbell.
My mom replied, “None of those sound right. I do remember most of your other
teachers, though. Let’s see, there was Mrs. Wulf, Mrs. Deiter, Mrs. Dederman, oh no, wait, I
remember it was Mrs. Dederman, and then she remarried and became Mrs. Deiter.” That’s how
it was. Now may mom is bound and determined to recall every teacher that ever taught at the
school during the entire duration of her children’s attendance there. She continued trying to keep
them in chronological order, “Mrs. Nelson, Mr. Kment, Mr. Rickenberg, Mrs. Brown… ”
My thoughts remained on that substitute teacher and how horrible she made me feel. I
lost track of what my mom was saying as her voice faded away. I remembered how things were
back when I was seven years old. The country school was a two-story red brick building with a
bell tower. The basement was the classroom for kindergarten through third grade and the upper
level was for fourth through eighth.
The bell rang to begin the school day. We hustled down the stairs and around the corner
into the narrow room that takes up the length of the west wall. We were to enter by the south
door and exit out the north. This room stored our jackets, coats, and lunches. The cleaning
supplies were under the stairs. The room smelled of cleaning solvent, a red flaky powder,
sprinkled on the floors before sweeping. Opposite the coat hooks were cabinets that held school
supplies. There was also a big sink, a water fountain, and a mimeograph machine. In the middle
of that west wall, on the classroom side, between the two doors, hung the American flag. All of
the students’ desks pointed east, facing the teacher’s desk. A big blackboard took up the south
end of the east wall behind the teacher. On the north end was the big heavy metal door to the
coal room, which no longer served its original purpose. The upper half of the north and south
walls were lined with large windows. The windows looked like their bottom sills sat right on the
ground.
We would stand next to our desk, facing the flag, with our hands over our hearts and
recite the pledge of allegiance. Roll call had to be taken, because the substitute teacher didn’t
know who we were without looking at the seating chart. With only five students, second grade
took up one row. I am not sure if there was any rhyme or reason to the seating arrangement. I
wondered if we were placed according to our level of intelligence. I know we were not in
alphabetical order. The smartest kid in second grade was Vicky Hansen, and she sat in the first
desk. She could spell supercalofragilisticexpealadoshush, which made her the best speller, not
only in the district, but also in the whole region. Behind her was Steven Klingsang, the kid who
wore bow ties and white shirts with pocket protectors. I sat in the middle of the row, just barely
average. I had trouble reading, I couldn’t spell, and I always got picked last for kickball because
I couldn’t run fast either. Behind me sat Richard Burgland; except for his older brother upstairs,
he was the biggest kid in school. And then there was Jerry Weidemen; he had shocking red hair
and freckles all over.
The substitute teacher looked normal as far as teachers go, slender, with brown hair,
glasses and big teeth. She had been our substitute teacher for only two weeks, but I already
knew that her big shiny tooth smile was no compensation for her mean- looking eyes and cruel
wicked laugh.
The substitute teacher said, “Good Morning,” flipping through papers on her desk and
then trying to rake them up in a pile, “we will start with second grade reading today.”
My heart skipped a beat – second grade reading – I swallowed hard.
She continued, “The rest of you students take out your penmanship notebooks and
practice your writing skills.”
“Looking at the open ledger on her desk, she said: “OK, where did we leave off last
time?”
I started to panic – I knew where we had left off.
Running her pointer finger down the ledger, she said, “Oh let’s see Steven was the last
reader so,” poking her finger at my name in the ledger, “Bonnie, it’s your turn. Stand please, and
begin at the top of page twenty.”
The moment I heard my name, my heart began to race; it pounded so hard that I felt it
pulsating in my ears. I was so nervous; I slowly got to my feet while turning the book to the
correct page.
I began with only two audible words escaping my lips, “Her parents…”
I stopped, cleared my throat, and slowly began again, “Her parents…”
There was that word that I could not get straight in my head. Every time I thought I had it
figured out, when I went to say it, something happened between my eyes, and my mouth, and it
came out wrong.
The substitute teacher said, “What’s the matter, don’t you know the word?”
I shook my head from side to side, not looking up.
“I can’t hear your brains rattle, answer me,” the substitute teacher said disgusted.
Not taking my eyes off of the sentence that held the word, I timidly replied, “No.” All
the while trying to hold the book steady in my profusely sweating hands.
The substitute teacher annoyingly said, “Well! Sound it out! It’s such a simple word,
you should know it.”
I continued to stare at the word while my head began to buzz. My younger brother was
just two rows over in the kindergarten row – I best not mess up, cause he would tell Mom. I
should have known the word, but it looked strange to me. What I saw was – a r e. I softly
sounded out, “air-ee”, questioning its correctness.
Everyone was snickering. The other grades were no longer practicing their penmanship.
I heard whispers and muffled giggles. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I tried not to blink, my
tears needing no help spilling out and trickling down my cheeks. The tastes of tears were thick
in my throat.
The substitute teacher sternly scolded, “Class, stop that snickering.”
I hoped she would tell me to sit down because my knees felt like noodles. The substitute
teacher stood up and slowly began to amble towards me. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me,
watching and waiting to see what would happen to me next. I could hear her high heels making
long drawn out click, clack, noises on the tile floor as she so very slowly shuffled down the aisle,
with every step coming closer to me.
She spoke in a stern dissatisfied tone, “Well, little girl, you need to know this word to
advance to third grade.” I felt sick, and I was so nervous that I had to pee; my heart was beating
so hard that I thought any minute I would explode.
The substitute teacher continued, “It seems to me you’ve had trouble with this word
before. I think you would remember it.” I kept my gaze downward – I did not want to see the
faces of those who were snickering and whispering. My eyes left the pages of the book as I
glanced down to the red and gray tiled floor, and I saw her pointy toed black shoes – she was
right beside me. My whole body trembled, and that sick feeling got worse. I felt like a zillion
little creatures were trying to eat their way out of my body. The tears that I tried so hard to hold
back now streamed down my face and plopped onto the word- filled pages. Each tear created a
round wrinkled wet splat mark. I worried that the book might slip out of my sweaty hands and
drop to the floor. With an increased urge to pee, I tried to shift my body weight from my left
foot to my right, but I was like a stone statue. And the book that I worried about dropping wasn’t
going anywhere, because my sweaty thumbs had stuck to the glossy pages.
The substitute teacher noticed my plight and said drawing out he r sarcastic words,
“What’s this?” You crying? Like a little baby? Stop that!”
The whole room was laughing.
Her wicked laugh weaved through her words. “For goodness sake is this anything to be
crying about?” she rested her hand on my shoulder and gently yet firmly nudged me into my
chair.
The tears were pouring out of my eyes. I kept my head turned down not wanting any one
to see, but they knew – she told them. The substitute teacher reached down, and gently
smoothed back my hair from the right side of my face, leaning in close, her face almost toughing
mine. I could smell her breath, a mixture of smoke and mints. I felt her exhale on my wet cheek
while her hushed harsh words echoed in my ears, “Stupid children do not go outside at recess.”
Standing up abruptly, the substitute teacher said, “And stop that crying,” loud enough for
everyone to hear as she went back to her desk.
I recall I had to stay in every recess that day. The substitute did let me go to the out
house, but I remember I had to stand in line and listen to remarks like, “Yah, here’s the little cry
baby. You better let her go first, so she don’t wet her pants.” The thought of that added
humiliation on top of what I had already suffered would have been unbearable.
My mother’s voice brought me out of this humiliating experience. She was talking on
and on about something else – the old school is passed mentioning.
I decided to ask my mom about this vivid memory that had haunted me for decades.
“Mom, do you recall anything else about that substitute?” I asked her.
Perplexed she asked, “Like What?”
I replied, “Like how horrible she was to me when I didn’t know the word “are.”
She looked even more perplexed and commented, “Huh, I don’t’ remember that.”
It saddened me a little to know that an incident, which was so devastating to me, held no
place in my mother’s memory. But, after all, it happened to me, not her. For decades, that
memory could be stirred up with just a tone in someone’s voice, or the word itself. And for just
a split second I would be that scared seven year old with sweaty hands, a nervous bladder, and
that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I struggled desperately in high school to maintain a C
average, most likely due to my lack of good reading skills. This incident definitely left some
scars.
Descriptive Narrative
Student Example
The Substitute Teacher
“Did you know Dist. 87 is closing?” my mom asked me.
“No!” I replied, “really!”
My mom said, I remember Mrs. Wulf was your favorite teacher. Was she your teacher
through third or fourth grade?”
Trying to recall I answered, “I’m not sure.”
“Oh! Remember that one substitute you had while Mrs. Wulf was sick?” she asked, not
waiting for my response she continued, “What was her name anyway, do you remember?”
Thinking to myself, yah, I remember her, but what was her name? Thinking out loud in
answer to my mom’s question I said, “I think it was something like Krumbly, or Kerber, or
Kimbell.
My mom replied, “None of those sound right. I do remember most of your other
teachers, though. Let’s see, there was Mrs. Wulf, Mrs. Deiter, Mrs. Dederman, oh no, wait, I
remember it was Mrs. Dederman, and then she remarried and became Mrs. Deiter.” That’s how
it was. Now may mom is bound and determined to recall every teacher that ever taught at the
school during the entire duration of her children’s attendance there. She continued trying to keep
them in chronological order, “Mrs. Nelson, Mr. Kment, Mr. Rickenberg, Mrs. Brown… ”
My thoughts remained on that substitute teacher and how horrible she made me feel. I
lost track of what my mom was saying as her voice faded away. I remembered how things were
back when I was seven years old. The country school was a two-story red brick building with a
bell tower. The basement was the classroom for kindergarten through third grade and the upper
level was for fourth through eighth.
The bell rang to begin the school day. We hustled down the stairs and around the corner
into the narrow room that takes up the length of the west wall. We were to enter by the south
door and exit out the north. This room stored our jackets, coats, and lunches. The cleaning
supplies were under the stairs. The room smelled of cleaning solvent, a red flaky powder,
sprinkled on the floors before sweeping. Opposite the coat hooks were cabinets that held school
supplies. There was also a big sink, a water fountain, and a mimeograph machine. In the middle
of that west wall, on the classroom side, between the two doors, hung the American flag. All of
the students’ desks pointed east, facing the teacher’s desk. A big blackboard took up the south
end of the east wall behind the teacher. On the north end was the big heavy metal door to the
coal room, which no longer served its original purpose. The upper half of the north and south
walls were lined with large windows. The windows looked like their bottom sills sat right on the
ground.
We would stand next to our desk, facing the flag, with our hands over our hearts and
recite the pledge of allegiance. Roll call had to be taken, because the substitute teacher didn’t
know who we were without looking at the seating chart. With only five students, second grade
took up one row. I am not sure if there was any rhyme or reason to the seating arrangement. I
wondered if we were placed according to our level of intelligence. I know we were not in
alphabetical order. The smartest kid in second grade was Vicky Hansen, and she sat in the first
desk. She could spell supercalofragilisticexpealadoshush, which made her the best speller, not
only in the district, but also in the whole region. Behind her was Steven Klingsang, the kid who
wore bow ties and white shirts with pocket protectors. I sat in the middle of the row, just barely
average. I had trouble reading, I couldn’t spell, and I always got picked last for kickball because
I couldn’t run fast either. Behind me sat Richard Burgland; except for his older brother upstairs,
he was the biggest kid in school. And then there was Jerry Weidemen; he had shocking red hair
and freckles all over.
The substitute teacher looked normal as far as teachers go, slender, with brown hair,
glasses and big teeth. She had been our substitute teacher for only two weeks, but I already
knew that her big shiny tooth smile was no compensation for her mean- looking eyes and cruel
wicked laugh.
The substitute teacher said, “Good Morning,” flipping through papers on her desk and
then trying to rake them up in a pile, “we will start with second grade reading today.”
My heart skipped a beat – second grade reading – I swallowed hard.
She continued, “The rest of you students take out your penmanship notebooks and
practice your writing skills.”
“Looking at the open ledger on her desk, she said: “OK, where did we leave off last
time?”
I started to panic – I knew where we had left off.
Running her pointer finger down the ledger, she said, “Oh let’s see Steven was the last
reader so,” poking her finger at my name in the ledger, “Bonnie, it’s your turn. Stand please, and
begin at the top of page twenty.”
The moment I heard my name, my heart began to race; it pounded so hard that I felt it
pulsating in my ears. I was so nervous; I slowly got to my feet while turning the book to the
correct page.
I began with only two audible words escaping my lips, “Her parents…”
I stopped, cleared my throat, and slowly began again, “Her parents…”
There was that word that I could not get straight in my head. Every time I thought I had it
figured out, when I went to say it, something happened between my eyes, and my mouth, and it
came out wrong.
The substitute teacher said, “What’s the matter, don’t you know the word?”
I shook my head from side to side, not looking up.
“I can’t hear your brains rattle, answer me,” the substitute teacher said disgusted.
Not taking my eyes off of the sentence that held the word, I timidly replied, “No.” All
the while trying to hold the book steady in my profusely sweating hands.
The substitute teacher annoyingly said, “Well! Sound it out! It’s such a simple word,
you should know it.”
I continued to stare at the word while my head began to buzz. My younger brother was
just two rows over in the kindergarten row – I best not mess up, cause he would tell Mom. I
should have known the word, but it looked strange to me. What I saw was – a r e. I softly
sounded out, “air-ee”, questioning its correctness.
Everyone was snickering. The other grades were no longer practicing their penmanship.
I heard whispers and muffled giggles. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I tried not to blink, my
tears needing no help spilling out and trickling down my cheeks. The tastes of tears were thick
in my throat.
The substitute teacher sternly scolded, “Class, stop that snickering.”
I hoped she would tell me to sit down because my knees felt like noodles. The substitute
teacher stood up and slowly began to amble towards me. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me,
watching and waiting to see what would happen to me next. I could hear her high heels making
long drawn out click, clack, noises on the tile floor as she so very slowly shuffled down the aisle,
with every step coming closer to me.
She spoke in a stern dissatisfied tone, “Well, little girl, you need to know this word to
advance to third grade.” I felt sick, and I was so nervous that I had to pee; my heart was beating
so hard that I thought any minute I would explode.
The substitute teacher continued, “It seems to me you’ve had trouble with this word
before. I think you would remember it.” I kept my gaze downward – I did not want to see the
faces of those who were snickering and whispering. My eyes left the pages of the book as I
glanced down to the red and gray tiled floor, and I saw her pointy toed black shoes – she was
right beside me. My whole body trembled, and that sick feeling got worse. I felt like a zillion
little creatures were trying to eat their way out of my body. The tears that I tried so hard to hold
back now streamed down my face and plopped onto the word- filled pages. Each tear created a
round wrinkled wet splat mark. I worried that the book might slip out of my sweaty hands and
drop to the floor. With an increased urge to pee, I tried to shift my body weight from my left
foot to my right, but I was like a stone statue. And the book that I worried about dropping wasn’t
going anywhere, because my sweaty thumbs had stuck to the glossy pages.
The substitute teacher noticed my plight and said drawing out he r sarcastic words,
“What’s this?” You crying? Like a little baby? Stop that!”
The whole room was laughing.
Her wicked laugh weaved through her words. “For goodness sake is this anything to be
crying about?” she rested her hand on my shoulder and gently yet firmly nudged me into my
chair.
The tears were pouring out of my eyes. I kept my head turned down not wanting any one
to see, but they knew – she told them. The substitute teacher reached down, and gently
smoothed back my hair from the right side of my face, leaning in close, her face almost toughing
mine. I could smell her breath, a mixture of smoke and mints. I felt her exhale on my wet cheek
while her hushed harsh words echoed in my ears, “Stupid children do not go outside at recess.”
Standing up abruptly, the substitute teacher said, “And stop that crying,” loud enough for
everyone to hear as she went back to her desk.
I recall I had to stay in every recess that day. The substitute did let me go to the out
house, but I remember I had to stand in line and listen to remarks like, “Yah, here’s the little cry
baby. You better let her go first, so she don’t wet her pants.” The thought of that added
humiliation on top of what I had already suffered would have been unbearable.
My mother’s voice brought me out of this humiliating experience. She was talking on
and on about something else – the old school is passed mentioning.
I decided to ask my mom about this vivid memory that had haunted me for decades.
“Mom, do you recall anything else about that substitute?” I asked her.
Perplexed she asked, “Like What?”
I replied, “Like how horrible she was to me when I didn’t know the word “are.”
She looked even more perplexed and commented, “Huh, I don’t’ remember that.”
It saddened me a little to know that an incident, which was so devastating to me, held no
place in my mother’s memory. But, after all, it happened to me, not her. For decades, that
memory could be stirred up with just a tone in someone’s voice, or the word itself. And for just
a split second I would be that scared seven year old with sweaty hands, a nervous bladder, and
that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I struggled desperately in high school to maintain a C
average, most likely due to my lack of good reading skills. This incident definitely left some
scars.
Descriptive Narrative
Student Example
The Substitute Teacher
“Did you know Dist. 87 is closing?” my mom asked me.
“No!” I replied, “really!”
My mom said, I remember Mrs. Wulf was your favorite teacher. Was she your teacher
through third or fourth grade?”
Trying to recall I answered, “I’m not sure.”
“Oh! Remember that one substitute you had while Mrs. Wulf was sick?” she asked, not
waiting for my response she continued, “What was her name anyway, do you remember?”
Thinking to myself, yah, I remember her, but what was her name? Thinking out loud in
answer to my mom’s question I said, “I think it was something like Krumbly, or Kerber, or
Kimbell.
My mom replied, “None of those sound right. I do remember most of your other
teachers, though. Let’s see, there was Mrs. Wulf, Mrs. Deiter, Mrs. Dederman, oh no, wait, I
remember it was Mrs. Dederman, and then she remarried and became Mrs. Deiter.” That’s how
it was. Now may mom is bound and determined to recall every teacher that ever taught at the
school during the entire duration of her children’s attendance there. She continued trying to keep
them in chronological order, “Mrs. Nelson, Mr. Kment, Mr. Rickenberg, Mrs. Brown… ”
My thoughts remained on that substitute teacher and how horrible she made me feel. I
lost track of what my mom was saying as her voice faded away. I remembered how things were
back when I was seven years old. The country school was a two-story red brick building with a
bell tower. The basement was the classroom for kindergarten through third grade and the upper
level was for fourth through eighth.
The bell rang to begin the school day. We hustled down the stairs and around the corner
into the narrow room that takes up the length of the west wall. We were to enter by the south
door and exit out the north. This room stored our jackets, coats, and lunches. The cleaning
supplies were under the stairs. The room smelled of cleaning solvent, a red flaky powder,
sprinkled on the floors before sweeping. Opposite the coat hooks were cabinets that held school
supplies. There was also a big sink, a water fountain, and a mimeograph machine. In the middle
of that west wall, on the classroom side, between the two doors, hung the American flag. All of
the students’ desks pointed east, facing the teacher’s desk. A big blackboard took up the south
end of the east wall behind the teacher. On the north end was the big heavy metal door to the
coal room, which no longer served its original purpose. The upper half of the north and south
walls were lined with large windows. The windows looked like their bottom sills sat right on the
ground.
We would stand next to our desk, facing the flag, with our hands over our hearts and
recite the pledge of allegiance. Roll call had to be taken, because the substitute teacher didn’t
know who we were without looking at the seating chart. With only five students, second grade
took up one row. I am not sure if there was any rhyme or reason to the seating arrangement. I
wondered if we were placed according to our level of intelligence. I know we were not in
alphabetical order. The smartest kid in second grade was Vicky Hansen, and she sat in the first
desk. She could spell supercalofragilisticexpealadoshush, which made her the best speller, not
only in the district, but also in the whole region. Behind her was Steven Klingsang, the kid who
wore bow ties and white shirts with pocket protectors. I sat in the middle of the row, just barely
average. I had trouble reading, I couldn’t spell, and I always got picked last for kickball because
I couldn’t run fast either. Behind me sat Richard Burgland; except for his older brother upstairs,
he was the biggest kid in school. And then there was Jerry Weidemen; he had shocking red hair
and freckles all over.
The substitute teacher looked normal as far as teachers go, slender, with brown hair,
glasses and big teeth. She had been our substitute teacher for only two weeks, but I already
knew that her big shiny tooth smile was no compensation for her mean- looking eyes and cruel
wicked laugh.
The substitute teacher said, “Good Morning,” flipping through papers on her desk and
then trying to rake them up in a pile, “we will start with second grade reading today.”
My heart skipped a beat – second grade reading – I swallowed hard.
She continued, “The rest of you students take out your penmanship notebooks and
practice your writing skills.”
“Looking at the open ledger on her desk, she said: “OK, where did we leave off last
time?”
I started to panic – I knew where we had left off.
Running her pointer finger down the ledger, she said, “Oh let’s see Steven was the last
reader so,” poking her finger at my name in the ledger, “Bonnie, it’s your turn. Stand please, and
begin at the top of page twenty.”
The moment I heard my name, my heart began to race; it pounded so hard that I felt it
pulsating in my ears. I was so nervous; I slowly got to my feet while turning the book to the
correct page.
I began with only two audible words escaping my lips, “Her parents…”
I stopped, cleared my throat, and slowly began again, “Her parents…”
There was that word that I could not get straight in my head. Every time I thought I had it
figured out, when I went to say it, something happened between my eyes, and my mouth, and it
came out wrong.
The substitute teacher said, “What’s the matter, don’t you know the word?”
I shook my head from side to side, not looking up.
“I can’t hear your brains rattle, answer me,” the substitute teacher said disgusted.
Not taking my eyes off of the sentence that held the word, I timidly replied, “No.” All
the while trying to hold the book steady in my profusely sweating hands.
The substitute teacher annoyingly said, “Well! Sound it out! It’s such a simple word,
you should know it.”
I continued to stare at the word while my head began to buzz. My younger brother was
just two rows over in the kindergarten row – I best not mess up, cause he would tell Mom. I
should have known the word, but it looked strange to me. What I saw was – a r e. I softly
sounded out, “air-ee”, questioning its correctness.
Everyone was snickering. The other grades were no longer practicing their penmanship.
I heard whispers and muffled giggles. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I tried not to blink, my
tears needing no help spilling out and trickling down my cheeks. The tastes of tears were thick
in my throat.
The substitute teacher sternly scolded, “Class, stop that snickering.”
I hoped she would tell me to sit down because my knees felt like noodles. The substitute
teacher stood up and slowly began to amble towards me. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me,
watching and waiting to see what would happen to me next. I could hear her high heels making
long drawn out click, clack, noises on the tile floor as she so very slowly shuffled down the aisle,
with every step coming closer to me.
She spoke in a stern dissatisfied tone, “Well, little girl, you need to know this word to
advance to third grade.” I felt sick, and I was so nervous that I had to pee; my heart was beating
so hard that I thought any minute I would explode.
The substitute teacher continued, “It seems to me you’ve had trouble with this word
before. I think you would remember it.” I kept my gaze downward – I did not want to see the
faces of those who were snickering and whispering. My eyes left the pages of the book as I
glanced down to the red and gray tiled floor, and I saw her pointy toed black shoes – she was
right beside me. My whole body trembled, and that sick feeling got worse. I felt like a zillion
little creatures were trying to eat their way out of my body. The tears that I tried so hard to hold
back now streamed down my face and plopped onto the word- filled pages. Each tear created a
round wrinkled wet splat mark. I worried that the book might slip out of my sweaty hands and
drop to the floor. With an increased urge to pee, I tried to shift my body weight from my left
foot to my right, but I was like a stone statue. And the book that I worried about dropping wasn’t
going anywhere, because my sweaty thumbs had stuck to the glossy pages.
The substitute teacher noticed my plight and said drawing out he r sarcastic words,
“What’s this?” You crying? Like a little baby? Stop that!”
The whole room was laughing.
Her wicked laugh weaved through her words. “For goodness sake is this anything to be
crying about?” she rested her hand on my shoulder and gently yet firmly nudged me into my
chair.
The tears were pouring out of my eyes. I kept my head turned down not wanting any one
to see, but they knew – she told them. The substitute teacher reached down, and gently
smoothed back my hair from the right side of my face, leaning in close, her face almost toughing
mine. I could smell her breath, a mixture of smoke and mints. I felt her exhale on my wet cheek
while her hushed harsh words echoed in my ears, “Stupid children do not go outside at recess.”
Standing up abruptly, the substitute teacher said, “And stop that crying,” loud enough for
everyone to hear as she went back to her desk.
I recall I had to stay in every recess that day. The substitute did let me go to the out
house, but I remember I had to stand in line and listen to remarks like, “Yah, here’s the little cry
baby. You better let her go first, so she don’t wet her pants.” The thought of that added
humiliation on top of what I had already suffered would have been unbearable.
My mother’s voice brought me out of this humiliating experience. She was talking on
and on about something else – the old school is passed mentioning.
I decided to ask my mom about this vivid memory that had haunted me for decades.
“Mom, do you recall anything else about that substitute?” I asked her.
Perplexed she asked, “Like What?”
I replied, “Like how horrible she was to me when I didn’t know the word “are.”
She looked even more perplexed and commented, “Huh, I don’t’ remember that.”
It saddened me a little to know that an incident, which was so devastating to me, held no
place in my mother’s memory. But, after all, it happened to me, not her. For decades, that
memory could be stirred up with just a tone in someone’s voice, or the word itself. And for just
a split second I would be that scared seven year old with sweaty hands, a nervous bladder, and
that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I struggled desperately in high school to maintain a C
average, most likely due to my lack of good reading skills. This incident definitely left some
scars.